That Nightingale
by Renee Murrhog
Summary: Cas met Dean during Algebra class. His back was across to him. He was all broad and bulging muscles and he had an intricate art pattern at the back of his neck that made his insides go strange. It was Enochian. How a regular human being came to acquire knowledge of angelic language, he wasn't entirely sure. But he is massively confuse about one thing— why does it say "fuck off"?
1. Chapter 1

I was an 8 year old skinny boy who liked to wear a denim overall. I liked to wear my denim overall because it was the only clothing my father bothered to buy me. All my other clothes were lovely too but I hated the doe-eyed pitiful look my neighbors gave my father and I when they reached those tiny used fabrics on our arms.

My father and I lived in an old shabby dusty apartment with creaking floors and loud next door neighbors. Most of the times, the noises were loud. There were too many people in our building enough to cause an angry mob to a company demanding to see the President for reforms and they'd let us. We were like terrible clowns in a rusting clown car with no way to explain how we could all fit in such a tight space but we did. Except there were no humor or hearty laughs, only screaming, fighting and breaking sounds.

It was a terrible place to grow up in. Maybe, I guess, it s the reason why I have a certain comfort level when it comes to chaos.

My father was a writer. Our little old haven had two rooms and a bathroom half the size of a common elevator. One was for sleeping in and one was just for us.

"That room is a fire hazard," I heard the chubby middle aged woman from next door comment.

"That sorry-ass man has a 5 year old son for god's sake! "said her skinny friend with the saggy arms and yellowed teeth.

I didn't remember the rest of what they were actually saying but I heard all of the whispered derogatory complaints. I really wasn't sure what the words were but I fully remember the disgusted worrisome looks painted on their faces when they talked about my father and how it made me feel.

That day, I ran to my father who had his back hunched from typing long hours on his typewriter. I loved that hunched back clothed in a sweaty blue button-up shirt. This was the man who taught me to write and read and count though I hated him for teaching me that. They were all hard lessons to remember. I hated it when he raises his voice when he runs out of patience but I loved the way his eyes creases when he smiles genuinely at me when I got it right. Though we fight and yell and break the furniture, I love how my chest suddenly feels light as a feather when he embraces me with those strong arms.

My 8 year old self thought he loved me.

So I embraced his sweaty hunching back. Willing the tightening in my guts to go away. Those wicked naggy hags were wrong. My father was the best father in whole wide world.

That day, my father finally released his breath in a lengthy exhausted sigh, relaxed his shoulders and his head fell back in a plump. My hug must have made him return from wherever he was. His fingers, then fumbled to the left side of the desk causing a sound of a click and whirring. Then, the sound of lazy plucking of strings eroded around the paper-filled room that was our home. From closed eyes and limp arms on the sides of the chair, his mouth barely moved but he sang it anyways:

Oh, give me the beat boys

And free my soul

I wanna Get lost in your rock n roll

And drift away.

Those were the very first words and the very first tune when my feet learned to move the way it liked. That was the very day my father twirled me around our little sun lit room as the dust particles swayed and moved lazily with us. The sound not so loud enough to raise complaints from the neighbors but just enough for the music to drown out the creaking noises whenever we moved. We raised our arms, wiggled our hips and we all laughed at ourselves at the silliness of it. It was the very first time the building was touched with such an innocent joy.

After several winters came to pass, I was 12 years, 5 months and 4 hours old. It has been 2 hours since the clock struck twelve. Today is my happy birthday. Or it was supposed to be. I woke up in the middle of the night just to tell my father of the joyous event. Birthdays, of course, are the only times when people get to give you stuff they don't normally give to someone except for Christmas. But the bed was cold and untouched. Father didn t come yet. Most recently, my father started coming home late. He was always grouchy and mad when he did so. This night, I hoped he purposely got late to surprise me with a handful of balloons and sweets he got from the bakery.

This night, I hoped to surprise him first.

So it was 3 hours after 12am at the very first hours of my birthday, I decided to bundle up on the sleeping bag in our fire hazard room of papers with my favorite quilt on my shoulders and sat several steps across the front door with giddy anticipation. Just before the hour of dawn rise to touch the sky with its fiery tendrils, he came in the room. The man looked like my protector. But this was not the man who danced with me on the eve of thanksgiving. He wore his coat, shoes, hair and eyes. But they were blood-shot. There was swelling on his cheeks. There was blood on his coat. And he didn't wear his shoes but he held it in his right hand.

"F-father?" I asked, my voice shaky at the sight of blood.

He didn t reply. When his eyes found me, his brows came close together and his scowl deepened at the sight of me. It was as if he didn't recognize me.

"Eleanor?" he muttered and his expression turned appalled when he did as if he quite didn't like the taste of it in his mouth.

I recognized him immediately. The harsh tone of his voice wasn't easy to forget.

"No, father, it s me" I said walking towards him to hold his palms. I put a bird made of paper inside his callused dry hands. It was warm and crumpled from my holding it all day but it was a surprise especially for him because it was my birthday. Because it was my birthday, I knew he was going to show me how much he cared just as the previous ones but today I was hoping to show him how much I cared.

He made a loud guttural noise in his throat, swiped the empty vase off the counter with his arm, and kicked the shelves as the thumping of books falling sounded like glasses breaking.

That night, he cursed, he stomped, he ravaged our sweet little old home. He went at it with such great energy; the wallpaper got painted in red as he angrily went about the room. When he finally recognized me in the room, he pointed an accusing finger in front of me, the paper crane no longer a bird in his bloodied fist.

That night, he told me I was an accident.

That night, he told me I was a mistake.

That night, he told me how he was really in love with my mother's sister and why he married my mother because it was the closest thing he'll ever come close to the real one.

My father longed for the moon but he grabbed the star instead in a jump; a poor substitute for the moon but the same light nonetheless. But a star wasn't enough. He wanted the moon. I was nothing but a distant dot overhead.

I got the message. I was unwanted.

And my 12 year old self believed him.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

I am 14 years 2 months and 7 hours old.

The morning was terribly rigid and gloomy. There were heavy grey clouds when I came in for first period. Mrs. Zuleikha waded in the classroom with her chin held high and began her high-pitched torture that resounded around the entirety of the room.

I was 15 minutes late per my morning routine. The teachers already knew why. She took one glance at me, scowled and resumed to her intense wailing that she thought as teaching.

There was a new boy in the back of the room. He must be new. He wore the uniform scowl everyone seems to be wearing lately. Though I say boy by the way he wore that petulant mask on his face, he was more man than anyone else I knew. He was all bulging muscles, large veined hands, and soft lips despite the strong and musky exterior. He was incredibly broad on his shoulders and incredibly slim on the waist.

The back of my neck prickles then I slumped my shoulders forward as I could feel the speculative eyes boring into me when I quietly walked to the back between the rows. There was only one seat open. Beside the window and behind the new student.

Mrs. Zuleikha started firing questions at the students like a vindinctive school boy poking at defenseless frogs. But I couldnt quite get my headspace into the lesson that required sin and a lot of satanical numbers.

"You, Cas?" He asked. My head tilted toward the inquiring sound. My far-offish thoughts scrambling to a stop when it heard an unfamiliar voice.. The deep rumble of it echoed around the deep spaces of my distant thoughts. Was he talking to me? The amused glint in his eyes confirmed my doubts when I found him looking straight at me.

I blushed. My head quickly arching down determined to study the rustic floor. "That's me" I said in an unintended squeaky pitch.

He gave a decisive nod and said "Heard my friends talking about you. Said you could take a mean-ass picture."

What is that sound that's coming out of his mouth? Leave it to God to mix the deepest azure part of the ocean with a whack-a-ton of Jack Daniels and shoved it down his chatter box. His lips tugged upwards to the sides when I realized that I was staring unashamedly at his soft pinkish lips.

Oh God, what was he saying again?

I nodded (a tack I use when I'm not sure what to answer) bit my lower lip then quickly putting my fist under my chin to depict the picture of nonchalance.

His eyebrows jutted skywards "So you're the 'picture guy'?"

I felt my eyes widen at the question. He has heard about me? My mind went on a death chase rapidly scanning the embarassing possibilities of what impression he now has of me.

Clearing my thought, I asked "...did.. Did you want me to take a picture of anything?"

His greenish yellow eyes brightened, the sides of it crinkled. Here's someone who's often amused. I bet he could laugh at just about anything. A sudden urge of wanting to watch him genuinely laughing crossed my mind. And having seeing it inches away from me as he throws his head back and watch those cords of muscles in his neck work.

"Nah I was just asking. Seemed like you needed the wake up call. Name's Dean. Dean Winchester. New transfer. Looking forward to seeing you around" I wonder if he was aware that he tipped his shoulder a bit when he tilted his head to the side. His hands were a gesture of non-chalance. His smile a million dollar. And my heart decided to skip a beat on its own.

Frowning at myself for the involuntary organ spasm, I remembered I was in a conversation "H-hi. I, too, am looking forward to seeing you around"

He tipped his chin up as if pointing toward something "your shirts all backwards by the way"

Crumpling applebottoms! My face flushed hot and I quickly scanned the room out of fear that Gabriel might be here to see another of my stupid moments. That devil with the smile of an angel is always there when I'm at my worst. And he made no qualms to address it in a loud freakishly annoying manner.

"Winchester!" The teacher called in a piercing shriek and Dean turned forward. Hand on her jutted hip, heels tapping and a red-hot furious face. Dean faced the mother of deadliest sins of Morris Valley High.

"Sweet footwear, Ma'am" he said.

Mrs. Zuleikha peered at the blackboard then at Dean's. Her eyes a savage dare that spoke all kinds of cruelty when responded to incorrectly.

"The answer would be... " The room went deadly quiet. The kind of quiet when a pencil drops the echoes it is a surrounding boom in your ears.

" ...undefined, Ma'am" then he suddenly flashed that million dollar smile of his that could get away with just about anything.

A few snickers and snorts, Mrs. Zuleikha's sugary smirk dragged like quick sand. "Yes, another answer could be achieved by applying this alternative method.." she mouthed off in a tempo more hurriedly than usual.

My hero, I thought. What? No, that one is a danger, danger, danger.

But no, as if sensing my denial, he gave me a sidewards glance by his shoulder and a grin! To me! Closing my mouth as I stared dubioslu at his daunting back, I noticed for the first time a tattoo at the nape of his neck.

In enochian, it said "Fuck off" and my inner angel internally groaned as dirty thoughts eroded my brain of the ways fucking off could mean.  



End file.
